Wildly into Forgetfulness: The Magnetism of Thoughts and Things

I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth. — William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying

If we could hear the earth-chatter, there would be nothing more to say. Silence is the dream of the ears, a fantasy where tinnitus is always interrupting, while the heart beats on. Touch a snowflake and its hexagonal splendor crumples into cold dust. Approach a dragonfly resting on a blade of grass and its iridescent wings flutter up and sparkle out of sight, into the light that keeps it safely dazzling. Blink and you’ll miss the rare flicker of green at sunset. Move through space and feel it retreat. Think and imagine the infinitude of thoughts that make way for the others, not unlike the sea does when a single body swims through it. It takes a touch of madness for the seed — a single seed amongst the failed multitudes — to find its way back up through the crowded earth, heaps of luck, too. Things make way for things, thoughts, too. In this magnetized reality, we are all lodestones, attracting and repelling, a world apart from Hell, but Tantalizing by nature, always. So near, so far.

Clocks slay time… time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life. — William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

Time and space are forever plotting against us, keeping the past and future a world apart, even if those worlds are coming and going in the midst of ‘This’. Every instant is a near duplication of the one before, making any kind of anything happening in the Universe seem impossible, if not tedious to the point of breakdown. One letter typed is followed by another, a truth that is often so hyperreal, completing a sentence is as monstrous a thing as writing an epic. And yet we continue to move… Sleep is like death, but the metaphorical dead continue to rise, like billions of Lazarus’s coming forth, constantly. Entropy does its best to take away the warmth and order, especially in Winter, while we find other ways to invigorate the wild seeds of the mind and keep them buried and wet. Gifted with forgetfulness — both temporal and spatial — TIME can be reduced to time, while the past and future collide, creating a near perfect-present of timeless creation. If only for a moment…

Right away, right away Green light, get a move on Right of way, right of way Stop sign, put the brakes on… You keep coming down the hill as you’re falling You keep falling from the hill as you’re coming down — Stone Temple Pilots, Regeneration/Bi-Polar Bear

Forgotten Time still takes its time. Just as the wild seed has to sacrifice its protective husk in order to take its chance, every creative action is an action of vulnerability, even though it’s absolutely solitary. Those little rituals that keep things like highway traffic in relative order, the ebb and flow of the concrete sea, have no meaning in this forgetful place. All the habits that keep us in order — in relation to everyone else — have to dissolve, like standing on the edge of oblivion and knowing that the fall is nothing but the next step, another word not yet realized, knowing that the edge is always edging along. Falling within this forgetful realm is as natural as standing still, flying, as necessary as sitting down. Like patience, this state of being has to be relearned, every moment, since Time still holds true, even when it’s forgotten. The enemy of this forgetfulness is not remembrance — since remembering is necessary for anything to happen within — but the lodestones of the world. Our sense of Time and Space is thrust back upon us, as surely as the worldly lodestones are repelled and re-attracted by that action, endlessly. In that flash of a moment, Time-remembrance, the next word flies off like the dragonfly, up, into the blue void, but dazzling all the same. Even if you blink. Hayden Moore